


I'll Watch Your Back, I'll Keep Your Heart

by CheerUpLovely



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheerUpLovely/pseuds/CheerUpLovely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When your strength becomes weak, you have to stand up and take charge. Clint learns this when his partner comes home to him much later than intended, and after a year apart he has to step up when she can't protect herself any more. <br/>Because whatever responsibilities he has, family will always come first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Slowly, she took step further down the hallway. Her feet padded softly, but the sound echoed in her mind and she took great care to make sure that her boots, now old and worn, didn’t scuff against the metal flooring. The last thing she needed was her location to be known. Once, this would have been an action that didn’t require a second thought. Once, this would have been something that she’d have done as an instinctive action to cover herself. Now, it was something that required all of her concentrating, something that existed in a small part of her mind but that she could no longer recall as a natural defence. It was a part of her that had ceased to have any control a long time ago. 

At the end of this hallway was a door, and every inch she gained towards it seemed to pass like a year. When she finally reached it she stopped, taking a breath before closing her palm around the handle. Soundlessly, she pushed the door open barely enough for her to look inside – she wouldn’t go inside. She didn’t want to go inside.

The only sound that met her ears in the darkness was the sound of a steady snoring. She let a silent sigh escape her, relieved that he had finally fallen into unconsciousness. It had been a drug of her own that she’d slipped into his food; one they had been baiting her with for some time and she had stored up for this exact purpose. Of course, as soon as he woke up he would know that it was her doing, but she only needed a small amount of time to escape. Blame and punishment would come later, she had no doubt of that, but she would be long gone by the time she was discovered. It wouldn’t be hard for them to know where she would go and he would certainly track her to the ends of the Earth, but she just needed time. She had people who would hide her, protect her, and here was not a safe place, not under any circumstances. It was no longer just herself that she owed her safety to and no longer just herself that she needed to protect.

For a moment she remained there, palm crushed around the handle and frozen to the spot as she watched him; his dark hair plastered against his forehead, creating a curtain over his eyes where his head was hung down with a line of stubble peppering his jaw. This man had ruined her over the past fifteen months. Two hundred and forty-three days. He’d taken the woman she had built herself to be and pushed her so far beyond her limits that she no longer recognised herself. This man had taken her from her team, her partner, her job, her life...

In another life, she’d have slit his throat without waiting for him to sleep. Now, she doesn’t even have a weapon in her hands and for the first time considers herself unable to take a life with her bare hands.

She’d left for this mission as she always did on solo operations, shrugging off the concerns of team mates when this was the first mission she’d taken alone since the formation of the Avengers team. She’d brushed off their concern because they were still so very focused on team operations and only one of them had understood what it was like to pack a bag in the dead of night and disappear for work-purposes for months on end. The fact that she’d had a moment to say goodbye had been an unusual blessing and she found that she had appreciated a chance to let them know she wasn’t going to be around for a while. But she’d been very unaware that she would end up kidnapped, overpowered, confined...and undiscovered.

Things had changed quickly in her confinement. Her strength faded as her body gave way to new priorities and she had no choice but to accept the scraps of ill-tasting food and dusty water they allowed her to have. So she had stopped fighting. For the first time in her life she had surrendered and she allowed them to believe that she had become submissive to them. She stopped attacking the guards when she bought them food and water. She stopped denying herself the pitiful medical care they so sparingly offered her out of necessity. She stopped everything save staring out of a barred window and planning ahead to the day when she would be in a better position to leave for good.

That time was now.

Nodding to herself and gathering all the confidence that used to fall so naturally upon her shoulders, she turned just as silently as she had arrived in the first place. Retreating away from the office space she returned to the room down the walkway where the door was left open so slightly. Nothing struck fear in her more than having that door closed to her and her unable to get back in, so she’d been forced to leave it open, the contents of the room exposed and vulnerable. She slipped back through the door, biting her lip when she passed the unconscious bodies of the guards – some seriously hurt and others maybe dead, she didn’t want to check. She didn’t know how much time she had and she needed to use whatever she could to get away from this place. She’d already collected up what little belongings she had left, very few of her own, and she made sure everyone n the base was unconscious before gathering up her infant son and beginning her escape.

The child in question, a young box six months and three days old, was still in the room she’d been in for over a year, sleeping with a peaceful innocence glazing over his face. His sandy coloured hair had, at birth, being showing signs of red like her own but that was fading now and becoming darker like his father’s. What she knew to be blue eyes fluttering behind his closed eyelids were all that had given her hope in the darkness of the last six months. At his feet of the bed was a single bag, filled only with the possessions that she would need for them – entertainment enough for the boy, the pathetic toys that they’d given her for him that she’d resented but she couldn’t deny him once he was old enough to start reaching for him, thin and barely acceptable clothes for the boy. She would be able to eat and settle herself once they were far away from this place.

She picked up her son in her arms and left without looking back, confidence searing through her now that she had a beating heart in her arms that she’d give her own life to protect. She made her way to the airport, a route she’d been tracking in her mind ever since she understood she was never moved from the original point of capture, and presented the passport she’d used to get into the country. After some polite arguments with the staff she had explained that no, her son was not on her visa but had tried to make it out that she had been air-headed enough not to realise that. Then she had turned on the tears, lied that her expired visa was a result of being trapped in a bad domestic feud and she needed to get to her home country to be with her family to protect her son, and they had allowed her on the next flight to New York.

Almost a day of travelling later she was stepping out of a taxi at the bottom of Stark Tower. Her son had woken long enough to be co-operative with struggling herself, a baby and a bag out of a cab and then he returned his face into her neck and went back to sleep. She was pleased that he could sleep through all this, as if he slept for another few hours he wouldn’t feel the jet lag like she would. She waited for a moment, until the cab had driven off and she felt the baby-soft breath on her neck, signalling her son’s slumber and entered the building before her.

She didn’t allow herself to relax until her back hit the elevator wall, closing her eyes for just a moment when the familiar ting of J.A.R.V.I.S’s programmed voice filled her ears. 

“Welcome home, Agent Romanoff.”  
\--

Thirty minutes later, after all the surviving, the pain, the endurance, and eventually the escape, she was glancing around at the apartment unit that she had only briefly considered her home. She had left the elevator, more than aware that it wouldn’t take long for the recognition of her name through J.A.R.V.I.S’s mainframe to reach Stark, and after that people would know she was back, but for now the space was empty. She didn’t sit down, knowing that in her exhaustion she more than likely would collapse and never get up again, and she couldn’t relax what little strength she still had until she knew for certain they were safe.

Not much had changed since she had left, there were still undrained coffee mugs on the worktop in mass production and they were still the same colours, with new chips around the edge. There was one mug that was hidden away beneath the coffee-table where Bruce had a habit of setting it down and forgetting about it once he was on a train of thought. The pillows on the couch were the same colour. It hadn’t been redecorated at all. It was settled. It was warm. 

And now it was loud, as the sound of team bustling loudly through the elevator startled her into clutching her son tighter.

“She can’t be here, she’s-“

“Stark, I swear if you say ‘dead’ one more time I'm going to put an arrow in your eye socket.”

“We’re just saying, the reports-“

“The reports mean shit, I told you she was out there-“

“Calm down, it might be a fault-“

“I thought you said J.A.R.V.I.S does make mistakes?”

She turned to face the voices she recognised. Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner...the one voice that was arguing with them that she’d thought she’d never hear again. He stormed in ahead of the others, eyes darting around desperately until they fell upon on her form and he stopped. Fifteen months of emotion gathered in her eyes as she stared back at him, and him alone, helplessly. She suddenly realised how terrible she would appear – sleep deprived, hope deprived, having not washed for almost a week. She was a wreck, broken both physically and emotionally, but when his eyes met hers for the first time in over a year, they still lit up with relief beyond the concern.

He raced across the room towards her, not stopping until he was right before her. When he did, he placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on her upper arm, as the other shoulder was occupied by her son’s sleeping head. “Tasha...” he whispered, unable to take his eyes from hers. “You’re really here...”

“Clint,” she choked out, ashamed that her voice was nothing more than a pained whisper, and that shame coupled with her experiences sent the tears welling in her eyes. “Clint, I-“ but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t say what she had come all this way to say. She just shook her head.

One of his hands moved to her cheek, an infinitely soft gesture that sent the tears over her cheeks. “You’re here,” he repeated breathlessly. “You’re home.”

And then it gushed from her mouth, before she could stop herself or find a way to sound less vulnerable. She pressed her face into her son’s head, relishing in his innocence for just a moment until the words finally came to her. Steve was on the phone, Stark was on the phone, she could hear orders and panic and chaos and could hear someone calling for Fury, for Coulson, and damnit, just get someone from S.H.I.E.L.D here before someone loses it.

“Protect him, Clint,” she said. “You gotta keep him safe, please, you can’t let them get him.”


	2. Chapter Two

She hadn’t expected New York to be so sunny. She’d rather hoped that it would have been in the middle of a downpour after the harsh sunshine she’d walked to the airport in. Of course, the city had it’s share of beautifully warm days but after watching an endless sunshine through that tiny barred window she’d been looking forward to the rain hitting her face. She had vivid memories of tugging a jacket closer to her as they worked through the night and they seemed too far away in her mind now. But still, the sunshine here was different than where she’d been kept; it wasn’t as stifling through the glare of the half-obscured window and there was always the chance of an unexpected thunderstorm in this climate. She’d have loved to have stood at the large floor-to-ceiling windows in the room and watched the city for a while, but with her team crowded around her and her son cradled against her chest she had more important things to be sorting out.

After her barely audible plea to Clint she had found herself pressed against his shoulder, leaning forwards without stepping to close the gap so that she didn’t crush the baby in her arms. The eyes that had first lit up with relief had darkened dangerously as he placed his arms around her. His arms felt like home. It felt like all the hardships she had been through to get back here had been worth it, because she was here, she was home, and they would be safe here. Despite the grip of the archer’s hands on her back and one on her hair, his touch was gentle. He didn’t pull her fully against him as he was aware of the delicate creature she held and she was glad for that. He knew when to be cautious and he knew that he could still give her the comfort she needed without squeezing her hard enough to break her bones. Yes, the feel of his arms around her, his hands against her, combined with the soft breath of her son on her neck was enough to assure her that she was home.

“Natasha?”

She heard him say her name several times, but it took a long time for her to find the strength to raise her aching body from the support he relentlessly offered. She wasn’t sure how long he’d been holding her but Bruce was standing close to her, observing her for injuries without disturbing the moment. She could see his medical concern straying towards her son and her heart began to pound, clutching him closer. Clint touched her cheek again alerting her attention back to him.

“Nat, what happened? How did you get back here?” he asked her.

She opened her mouth to speak but found that no words came out. How could she explain what happened? That she had been imprisoned and only spared from execution because of her child? And the baby, how could she even begin to explain him? 

“That’s not important,” Bruce interrupted the silence, looking at Clint. “She’s malnourished, which means the baby could be too. We need to get them both to a hospital.”

“No!” she cried, closing that step between them and crushing her arms against her son. Effectively all she did was bounce against Clint’s chest, anything to avoid the talking and prodding and poking and questions, but Clint held her back a little from him to try and talk to her. She was a little more forceful however and returned herself to his arms with a strangled cry; an action that caused them all to be taken aback slightly. She mumbled something against him and Clint leaned down, without releasing her, to place his lips by her ear.

“Tasha, you need to see a doctor, we need to make sure that you’re okay,” he told her in a whisper. 

“No, I won’t let them touch him, I won’t let them stick needles in him,” she insisted. “They can’t have him, I won’t let them hurt him.”

The mumbling was beyond a refusal to go to a hospital. Natasha was reluctant to have her own medical help at the height of her own health and had been known to conceal bullet wounds that she’d treat in her own bathroom. But this was different. This wasn’t refusal or denial, this was begging, this was desperation. Clint’s lips remained at her ear, his hands gripping her shoulders, blocking the escape he could feel her twitching for. “Natasha, listen to me-“

“I can’t let them touch him,” she insisted. “I swore...”

“No one is going to touch him unless you let them,” he assured her. “You have my word on that. If you won’t go to a hospital, will you let Bruce check you both? We’ll only go a hospital if it’s something serious, life or death, okay?” She was silent, considering this. “Bruce is your friend, he is your team mate. He is not going to hurt him in any way, and you won’t have to leave him.”

In six months and four days she had been the only one to consider her son’s welfare. Many orders had been given in captivity at the insistence that they were for the good of the child but she knew better. She knew that the things they did were for their own selfish desires. The only person in that goddamn place who truly gave a damn about her baby was herself. It was one of the most prominent reasons why she’d needed to escape. She needed to take her son to a place where there were people he could be safe with. She wouldn’t have him groomed to be the soldier that she overhead them overheard them talking about. She wouldn’t let him become their experiment. She wanted him to be a child, she wouldn’t allow him to be groomed and ruined like she was. She knew what happened to child soldiers and that would not be the fate of her son.

She reluctantly withdrew her head from Clint’s shoulder again, cradling her baby’s head and nodding her consent to Bruce, and Bruce only, examining the baby.

Clint had wordlessly insisted that he would accompany her and Banner to the infirmary. He had taken the old bag from her and thrown it over her shoulder so that she had her full strength to devote to the baby. She hadn’t fought off the hand that he placed on the small of her back, steering her back into the elevator, instead she had leaning up against him – just a little, but more than she ever would have done before, and it’s enough to make him tense momentarily before he relaxes and strokes his hand up and down the curve of her spine, his brow furrowing when it’s more prominent than he remembers.

The baby began to stir on the way down. Natasha whispered to him in Russian, the one language that she spoke to the child wish her captors hadn’t been able to understand, and she paid no attention to the looks that Clint threw her. She knew that she had changed, in his eyes as well as her own, and that the sight of her with a child she was handling remarkably tenderly was shocking for anyone, no less so than the fact she was begging for help. She had changed too much, not all for the better. She didn’t feel like herself anymore, certainly not the capable Agent Romanoff who had left fifteen months ago. She was barely a capable anything, when she considered the men she’d left unconscious in her absence, the men who would have been dead within seconds in her old state of being. Now she was nothing more than a scared mother who needed a better life for her child.

She froze awkwardly once they reached the laboratory level, her steps turning stiff and she was relying far too much on that hand at the base of her spine, urging her past the experimentation labs that Bruce and Tony spent most of the time in and towards the medical examination room at the end. This room, she knew, that been build with the purpose of Clint and Natasha, when Stark Tower had been renovated after the Battle of New York, after Tony had walked in on Natasha picking glass fragments out of Clint’s back. It had been understood that there were two painfully exposed team members who relied on nothing more in a fight than their own strengths and bodies and as a result they needed a place in Stark Tower to patch each other up if they were going to refuse medical attention.

It didn’t look all that different to the one they’d taken her to in captivity. The room they’d planned to experiment on her son in.

She focused all her attention towards the baby, making sure that he came to full wakefulness peacefully rather than with disgruntled cries. Bruce lead them over to the examination table and Clint nudged her gently towards it, refocusing her on movement. This time she jumped at his touch, which concerned him, but she followed his lead after and he didn’t bring it up.

“Sit,” he instructed softly, less of a command and more of an invitation, and she lowered herself to the medical bench with the baby in her arms. Before Bruce could approach her, however, Director Fury himself stepped into the room, and even the baby feel silent as he approached.

“Agent Romanoff, a word?”

It wasn’t a question. Natasha looked hesitantly at her son, even though Fury was moving to the far corner of the room and she was assured that she didn’t need to leave, she was hesitant. “Don’t worry,” Bruce murmured to her with a soft smile. “I’ve come a long way with my touch. You’ll be able to see him the whole time.”

She hesitated for another moment, then kissed her son’s forehead and soothed his small amount of dusty brown hair before standing up again. She was safe with these people, she knew that, but she had never had to pass him over into the care of somebody else before and that made her more than nervous. She handed the boy to Bruce, but he instantly started fussing at the new arms and within minutes he was fully crying, forcing Natasha to take him back from the doctor. 

“Maybe Clint could hold him,” Bruce suggested. “I won’t be able to hold him and examine him at the same time, after all.”

Clint turned to Natasha, glancing first at the baby and then at her pleading eyes. Even though kids tended to scream around him and he really had never held a baby before he mumbled a quick “sure”. There was an awkward moment of arrangement but eventually he had the boy curled up in his arms. Natasha leaned for a moment and whispered soft words to him which Clint couldn’t hear, and when she stepped back and allowed her fingers to leave the boy’s cheek he was still as calm and settled as he had been in her own arms. She remained for a moment, watching the ease in which Clint held her son and her son held Clint’s arms in return, and then she felt Fury’s gentle hand at her elbow, leading her away.

“Sit down,” he invited when they were at Banner’s desk. She sat down and Fury took a seat opposite her. “What happened out there?”

She tore her eyes away from her son to look up at him. “They were waiting for me. Someone told them I was coming and there were just too many, even for me. They were going to execute me when they caught me,” she shook her head, staring at the ground now. “I was going to let them, since they decided I didn’t have any use to them if I wasn’t going to give them information, and they knew enough not to use me as leverage against S.H.I.E.L.D...but then they just locked me up. I kept trying to get away and it failed every time and so I waited to die...and then there was a baby and I couldn’t...they wanted to turn him into some kind of soldier, the same way with Rogers, and I couldn’t let them do that to a...to my baby...and after he was born they kept trying to take him away from me and I couldn’t let them...”

“It’s okay...Natasha...” he said softly, the use of her first name rather than ‘agent’ alerting her to how distressed she’d become. Her son was twenty feet away from her, but due to the confinement she realised that she had never been this far away from him before.

She took a breath to steady herself and looked up again. “I tried, Sir.”

“You always do,” he nodded, putting a hand on her shoulder. “We’ve been trying to track you this whole time. When your signal went off the grid we thought you’d been moved. We never gave up. Barton...” Fury looked over at the other agent, then back to Natasha with a shrug that said everything. Clint would have moved mountains to get his partner back, and moved Heaven itself for his best friend. “The child?” he asked, and she knew the question he was really asking.

She ran a hand through her dirty hair. “I wanted to bring him back to his father, so he could be safe even if I couldn’t-“

“The father’s here in New York,” Fury understood. “Conceived before the mission?”

She looked across the room with a nod, seeking out her child. He already looked happier in his new environment. Of course, he’d not known better than the life he’d been born into and he rarely took any notice of this. He had smiled at his mother, cried when he was sick, explored the world as it was around him. He never received any attention other than what his mother had shown towards him and so he was thrilled to watch the silly faces that Clint was pulling at him to distract him from Bruce’s examination. He added silly noises to the faces once baby tried to start a game of trying to grab any part of the white lab coat that Bruce was wearing. His glasses, too, looked like a nice shiny toy for him to play with but he hadn’t been able to reach them yet. He was smiling, laughing, with that same beautiful innocent smile that had dragged her through each day.

She nodded again. “Yes, the father’s here.” Fury nodded back, leaving the matter at that. The paternity of her child wasn’t important right now; what was important was that the last fifteen months had gone horribly wrong and they needed fixing. No woman as strong as Natasha should be forced to recoil into herself this much. There was no fixing what would have become of her and child if she hadn’t been able to escape.

Bruce stopped his examination, still leaning over the child somewhat but calling over. “You’ll be pleased to know there’s no problems here,” he assured loudly. “You have a perfectly healthy boy, Natasha.” There was a squeal of delight when Banner’s glasses suddenly vanished from his nose and appeared in the child’s hand, where he proceeded to wave them dangerously close to Clint’s face. “And a curious one, at that.”

There was a sigh of relief that worked through her entire body, relaxing more than half the muscles. Of course, this didn’t escape Fury’s notice. “Has a doctor looked at him before?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not since the morning he was born,” she whispered. “When he got sick they tried to give him medicine but I didn’t trust them because of what they wanted to really give him...” her head dropped and rested on her palm wearily. “And he would just cry all night and there was nothing I could do...”

“Do you want to take him to the hospital to be sure?” he offered.

“No, I trust Bruce,” she answered immediately.

At that, she stood up and went to where the others were. Even though the examination was over, Clint was more than happy to continue amusing the child. He was lifting him high above his head so that the boy would squeal with delight and for once Natasha didn’t feel a rush of panic that would sweep over her at someone being near her child. She’d once woken in the night to see one of the scientists leaning over his makeshift crib and her heart had leapt into her throat, but now Clint was all but throwing him into the air and she wasn’t worried at all. Because Clint was an expert marksman, Clint never missed a target, and Clint’s hands never once left the baby, Clint would never, ever have allowed an innocent life to come to harm and never, ever would allow for Natasha’s child to be harmed in his care.

In return, Clint laughed at his amusement, and in the end they were both laughing at each other in an endless loop that even had Fury smirking. Clint laughed at the innocent giggle, a sound he’d not experienced close up before, and the baby laughed at the deeper laugh. “You’re a happy little guy, aren’t you?” Clint cooed at him.

Natasha stood near them, not interrupting because she was too busy admiring the smile on her son’s face. This was something he deserved. He’d been treated like a zoo animal for his short life, locked in a room with his mother and bought food and water by strangers who would one day separate them and turn him into a lab rat. Natasha had no choice but to figure out to breastfeed the baby, knowing that otherwise he’d have starved without nutrients. She’d had to figure out a lot of things on her own to keep him alive and healthy. She knew she couldn’t have fed him that way forever, but she could still do so for now even though he would have access to more variety of tastes available to him. She wanted him to be normal, and that would start with him having positive attention showered on him from people she could trust.

“You are, aren’t you?” Clint continued as the boy laughed even more in return. “Oh no, you don’t. Not the hair, little man,” he laughed nervously as the boy made a curious grab for the messy spike of his hair. Natasha smiled, perhaps for the first time in months. She could remember smiling at her son, and only her son while in captivity, but nothing else had given her a reason to smile. Only her son and his familiar toothless grins which had become gapped smiles since he had started teething not long ago. He still had new teeth growing through, which made him grizzle all through the night and chew on her finger, but the smiles were worth the tears, she’d tell herself.

Seeing Clint with her baby wasn’t something she had prepared herself for, though. She’d never seen him around a baby, only the occasional children they’d needed to rescue. She’d seen him lift a little girl with a broken leg from beneath a collapsed building, and carry a ten year old boy out of a burning building on his back, and she’d seen him refuse to leave either of them until their parents were with them, but she hadn’t expected him to be this attentive outside the need to protect a life. Yet, there he was, making her child smile, pulling faces and talking in the softer baby tone that she’d once found ridiculous and now spoke as fluently as any other language she held. Perhaps it was because they were partners. Perhaps it was because he assumed their closeness would allow him to be Uncle Clint to the boy.

After she had been beside him for a short while, Clint stopped and held the baby out before him somewhat, tilting his head with his hawk eyes casting their own examination of the baby. In return, the baby tilted his head to return Clint’s gaze, the two observing each other from a short distance. Clint laughed at him with a small grimace. “Uh oh,” he blanched. “Your mom looks at me like that sometimes.” He continued his observation of the boy. “You look a lot like your mom, don’t you? Not the hair or the eyes...but definitely the nose and that stare...” he mused. The boy stared back, then reached out and prodded Clint’s nose. “You’re grabby, little man. But your name isn’t ‘little man’, is it?” The boy made a noise. “No, I didn’t think so.”

Taking this as her cue, Natasha moved closer, leaning against the examination table so that her shoulder brushed against Clint’s. “Michael,” she told him. “His name is Michael.”

Rather than questioning what the rest of his name was, a grin spread over his face and he burst into a disbelieving laugh which started the baby off giggling again. “Are you kidding me?” he asked her, turning to her with the boy in his arms still and laughing and grinning at her as if she hadn’t even been gone for ten minutes. “You actually named your kid after a Godfather character?”

She allowed herself a tiny smirk, nudging his shoulder. “Your fault,” she mumbled. “You made me watch it so much.”

“Hey, you loved that movie and you can’t deny that,” he told her, turning his attention back to the baby. “Oh, that’s awesome. A Michael Corleone baby,” he said testing out the name. “Michael.” The boy laughed in response. “He now officially the most awesome kid in the entire universe.” Clint looked over the baby’s head to where Fury was standing with Bruce. “Sir, permission to keep the Godfather baby?”

Fury was smirking at him before he even finished the question. “I told you when you first brought Romanoff in that she’s your responsibility, Barton. That includes anything and anyone she brings home with her.”

Clint flashed a grin at him and went back to fussing, and Natasha fell into the comfortable lull of the room and her son’s cooing sounds, until Clint was talking about Pepper adoring the little guy and being the best Christmas present ever and she snapped out of a trance with a frown. “Christmas?”

“Christmas Eve,” Clint nodded, turning to look at her softly. His eyes said it all, and reading Clint had always been her best skill. Michael would be an adoration of the team, especially Pepper who did adore tiny people, but as much as he could call that a seasonal gift to the team she knew that what Clint considered a gift, and it was the scrawny, once-strong woman beside him. “Guess Christmas miracles do exist,” he whispered.

In response, she smiled a little and rested her head on his shoulder. And everything’s comfortable and everything’s warm but she then spotted the clock in the corner of the room and her mind started working overtime with a lump in her throat. “They’ll know I’m gone by now,” she choked out. “They’ll know I’ve come here. They’ll come looking for him.”

“Why would they come looking for a baby?” Clint asked, confused as he settled the baby on his hip in the gap between them. It was arguable the safest place in the world – close between the assassins who would have done anything to keep him safe.

“They wanted to train him on the same Super Soldier programme that Rogers was involved in.” Fury answered, his arms folded over his chest.

“They what?!” Clint shot out, looking at Natasha.

She just looked down at the baby. “That’s why I had to get him out of there.”

“Barton, you’re on protection detail.” Fury nodded, and Clint’s back was straightened instantly as he stepped into a familiar role he was all too ready to assume. “Rotate with Banner if need be.” It wouldn’t be needed, that went without saying. Clint wouldn’t leave his partners side. “This building will be locked down immediately, no one enters but the team and we’ll start going through a strategy plan to end this. Until then, Agent Romanoff and the baby-“

“Michael,” Clint interrupted. Fury stared at him, and Clint just shrugged. “He has a name. This is just some random kid, Sir, it’s Natasha’s child.”

“Then protect him,” Fury told him sternly. “Natasha and her baby stay in this building. Unless given a direct evacuation order, they do not leave the top three floors of this building and you do not leave her side. Is that understood, Agent Barton?”

Clint nodded. “Wasn’t planning on leaving them, Sir,” he answered, glancing at Natasha who watched back silently.

“Romanoff, is there anything you need for the baby?” Fury asked, turning his focus to her.

Natasha indicated to the bag at Clint’s feet. “Everything we have is in that bag,” she admitted. It was a sad truth, but there wasn’t exactly supplies at hand. “I’m sure there’s a lot he needs but...I don’t know what...”

“Not a problem,” Fury nodded. “I’m sure Ms. Potts will be happy to dedicate her time to finding everything you need. Leave the rest to us.”

“Don’t-“ she strangled out as he turned away. He turned back, fixing his good eye upon her to see the distress in her face. It wasn’t a look he’d ever seen on her unless she was acting. “Don’t let them come for him,” she pleaded. “I can’t let them find him...”

Fury nodded. “I suggest you reacquaint yourself with your home, Agent Romanoff.”


	3. Chapter Three

The short trip to the top floor and residential level of the building was passed in silence. Natasha kept the baby against her chest, and he was now relaxed against her, looking around curiously at the new sights and sounds. When the elevator doors opened she moved him to her hip and followed Clint out of the doors. It remained silent between them, as neither knew what words to fill the gap of the last fifteen months. Two hours ago, Clint hadn’t even had proof that she was alive, let alone where she was, and now she was here, she was home, with a baby. He didn’t know what had happened to her but it had been enough for her to abandon her usually instinctive reflexes to abandon her. It was why the silence was so thick; Clint rarely spoke when something was bothering him and Natasha rarely let anyone know what was really going on inside her head regardless of the decision, so the combination of their usual stubbornness was drowning them. 

He lead her down the hall into what used to be her room, and it was all exactly the same – the bed was made with the same crease down the middle that she remembered leaving in her haste to depart for the mission. One of the pillows was crooked, not on the side that she slept on which confused her, as if someone else had slept on the bed, and she knew that her clothes would be in the drawers and her shampoo would be in the bathroom off the side....she was home. Once the door had closed behind them, the comforts of home settled in and they found their voices at the same time.

“Natasha-“

“Clint-“

They stopped, a small smirk passing between them before she whispered into the room. “I’m sorry.”

He returned the glance, tilting his head to the side. “You don’t have anything to apologise for,” he told her.

“I do,” she nodded. “I said I would call.” He stopped a step away from her, looking at her rather strangely. “You told me to call before I set off from the S.H.I.E.L.D base and let you know if I wanted a lift back from the airport when I came home.”

He remembered them saying goodbye at the airport that morning she disappeared from his life, and yes, he’d jokingly made her promise to call as he always did when they went on separate missions. “It’s okay,” he assured her with a smile. “I had Stark hack the file when you didn’t get in touch, so we knew you’d made it there okay, at least. We figured there was a delay and you went straight to the job.”

“I did,” she confirmed. “At first.”

His smile dipped at the addition and he sighed, taking a step closer. “What did they do to you, Tasha?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “It wasn’t what they would do to me...it was what they wanted to do to him,” she told him.

His eyes darkened at the thought, but he didn’t answer any more questions when innocent gurgles from the boy looking over her shoulder interrupted him. He sounded like he was trying to talk, to join into the conversation they were having. Natasha kissed his forehead, playing close attention to her son’s eyes as he explored his new surroundings. When he felt the lips touch his head, he smiled and rubbed his face against her cheek, causing her to smile in return.

“How old is he?” Clint asked, watching the interaction with a soft smile.

“Six months, four days,” she recited instantly.

“Accurate,” he observed.

“I didn’t have much to do other than watch him grow,” she told him, still not taking her eyes away from her son.

Clint nodded, still watching the both of them. She’d been gone for fifteen months. Her son was six months old. His brain was throwing timelines at him and he wanted to scream questions but he stopped himself. Natasha had been through enough and the last thing she needed was him asking questions he might not have any right to ask. He threw the suspicions to the back of his mind. “Coulson assigns us temporary agents to help out on long projects,” he said meaninglessly. “We never let them take your room.”

She smiled a little. “Thank you.”

“Are you hungry?” he offered. “Jane’s been teaching me to cook when Thor’s not been around, but we can order in if you want. You look half-starved and I’m sure Tony knows a pizza guy that will deliver at ten in the morning...” he rambled, his eyes falling on the baby again. “What about the baby?”

“I’ll feed him,” she nodded.

“You uh...” he indicated, but hesitated when he realised what he was pointing to describe. “Breastfeeding, huh?” he asked with an awkward cough.

“Yes,” she deadpanned at his expression. “It was either that or he starved.”

“Right,” he nodded, clearing his throat again. “Sorry.”

He watched her again as she stood before him, taking her in. She was back. She was really back, standing in her room as if she’d never left. She wasn’t back in the condition that he’d been expecting her in, but the fact that she was alive and standing on her feet was enough. She was broken, sure enough, and her spirit had been shattered, but they could fix that with time. They could fix broken, they couldn’t fix dead. After all, they’d been partners for seven years before she disappeared, who else knew her better than he did? They’d grown to be friends and something else entirely, not just co-workers, and it had made their partnership strong. 

He knew that there was a little girl inside her who had cried silently at her parents funeral when she was seven years old, and her grandfather had told her to stop because she needed to grow up now. He knew that she had taken these words to heart and hadn’t fought him when he began to train her into something more than an adult. He knew that she had realised the hard way that people can be used if they were too open, and that the most of unlikely of people can cause an incredible amount of pain. But beyond that, he knew that she enjoyed reading old classics, that she had a battered old copy of Jane Eyre in her personal belongings that wasn’t even documented in her file under personal effects. He knew that she’d never admit to watching a sunset, but that she used them to mark off another day she’d survived. He knew that she wasn’t insecure about her body, but that she was resentful of how man ogled her like they could attain her with lecherous stares. He knew that she’d never sing in the shower but that she would hum along with music in the kitchen. It didn’t matter how much she tried to guard parts of her personal life, because she had started to let him into her life bit by bit, letting him slip past her covers, and he had proceeded to walk closer to her ever since.

But now, she was another woman. She stood before him dressed in grubby clothing, covered in stains of what could only be baby-vomit; her issued attire faded with age and stretched around the stomach from her pregnancy. Her hair was longer, all of the layers and curls having given way to a somewhat crazed bush of tangles. She looked like a scared child, holding onto her son and not knowing what to do. He realised then that he didn’t know what exactly had happened to her out there but he knew in his heart that they didn’t deserve it. Natasha had a past behind her, but she had changed her allegiance and dedicated her skills to the good side now. Despite her view on her ledger she had done more good than harm in the world. Moments like this should be enjoyed as normal, a life where standing in her bedroom with her son in her arms didn’t seem strange and foreign to her.

“You want to take a shower or a bath while I sort out some food?” he asked her. In a completely un-Natasha fashion, she bit her lip, looking down at the baby. “I’ll watch Michael,” he offered, but she still didn’t look convinced. “You’re exhausted, Natasha,” he told her, stepping into her personal space and putting a hand on her back. “He’ll be safe with me, so will you. I’m not going to let anything happen to either of you, okay?” He sighed, pinching the top of his nose. “You have no idea what I’ve...” he stopped himself, taking a steadying breath and looking back to her.

She let a moment pass and nodded. She had come home because she knew that it was safer for her son than being on the run, and Clint was right, Michael was safe with him. She’d already seen that Clint was capable of keeping him amused for a while so she could wash away any physical grime from the past fifteen months. “Okay,” she nodded.

“Okay,” he repeated. “Your clothes are still in the same place. The temperature won’t get much higher today, so I’d recommend something warm.”

She nodded silently and reluctantly passed the baby to Clint. He fussed momentarily but she kissed his forehead. “Shh,” she whispered, until Michael settled at her voice and made a sighing noise as he rested his head on Clint’s shoulder, right along the base of his neck. “He’s tired,” she noted softly. “If you stroke the back of his neck, like this,” she demonstrated, gently trailing the back of his finger along the base of his neck to his hairline, “he’ll go to sleep easily.” She moved her hand as Clint picked up the action. “He likes that,” she mused. “It relaxes him.”

“Figures,” he mumbled softly in a laugh, the rise and fall of his chest jogging the baby who grasped a fistful of his shirt and then settled again.

“What figures?” she asked.

“I remember that it relaxes you as well,” he said.

The look in her eyes told him that whatever taboo they’d been practicing had been broken. Things which he had wanted to ask had been withheld because there were more important matters at hand. If she’d arrived with a smirk, apologising for being late, he’d have taken her to one side and had that conversation immediately, but instead she’d turned up frightened and unsure, holding a child she was afraid to release and asking him for protection. Now, she just stared back at him, and he had to look hard for the gentle tugging of the corner of her lips, a ghost of a smile that there was no real time for. He boldly leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead and allowing himself a moment to linger when he heard her sigh at the contact. She placed a hand on his chest, beside where her son way and he pulled his lips back reluctantly, returning them for a quick, chaste encounter with her forehead again before guiding her in the direction of the bathroom.

“Take as long as you need,” he invited her. She nodded numbly and looked at her son again, who was getting sleepier by the second. “He’s fine with me,” he assured her again. “I promise I won’t even let him out of my arms until you’re back.”

That settled her nerves somewhat. “If you promise,” she whispered.

“I promise,” he assured her softly. “I’ll give you some privacy, so I’ll take him into the living area, okay? I’m going to sort out some food and make you some tea.”

He’d lingered when she closed the bathroom door behind her and waited for the sound of a lock which never came. He suspected that she wouldn’t put the unnecessary barrier of a locked door between her and her baby. He wasn’t being perverted in waiting, but he didn’t move from that spot until he heard the reassuring sound of water running. Then he set about making her comfortable. He knew she never showered for longer than fifteen minutes but he didn’t know how long she’d need to wash away the troubles that fell on her shoulders. He went into one of the dresser drawers and pulled out a pair of her old sweatpants and a thick training sweater, then laid them on the bed for her. He went into the kitchen after, switching on the kettle. As the water was boiling his cell phone rang, and when he answered it quickly to avoid disturbing the almost-asleep baby in his arms.

“Barton,” he mumbled.

“Put the pizza menu down.”

He stared at the phone for a moment then bought it back to his ear. “Banner?”

“Natasha didn’t let me examine her but she’s definitely malnourished. Do not, under any circumstances, order pizza. Feed her something healthy, and don’t overload her with it, small portions.”

The menu that had been inches away from his fingertips before the phone rang was flipped away with his elbow. “I wasn’t going to,” he trailed off and sighed. “Anything else.”

“She looked like she was in shock, so it’s important to keep her and the baby warm, especially in this weather. Not too hot though, so just get some blankets, don’t turn up the thermostat any more than it already is. An overheated baby will not be a happy baby.”

Clint nodded against the handset. “Right. Food, warmth. Got it.”

“And Clint?” he fell silent at the use of his first name. “Don’t rush her. I know you’ve missed her in a different way than the rest of us and whatever history you guys have...this will be hard for her to adjust back into, especially bringing a child back with her. Her tolerances will be different and she has a new set of priorities. She’s a mother now. She needs time to rest, time to heal. This has to go at her pace, not the pace you want her to be back to normal in.”

He sighed, he wouldn’t have tolerated any of the others invading into his and Natasha’s history like Bruce so blatantly had, but Bruce had been the one who had supported him most in his tireless efforts to find her. “I wanted her back, but like this?” he admitted.

“This is Natasha,” Bruce told him. “You know her best. Just do what you do best, and be her partner.”

He nodded. “I can do that.”

When he hung up he resisted the urge to throw his phone across the room, but if he broke another one then Coulson might finally have the stroke he’d been threatening to have all these years. It was only when he noticed a pair of eyes looking up at him that he instead put it down on the kitchen worktop. Michael was looking up at him, no longer tempted into sleep but curiously watching him. Clint watched him back, until the sound of boiling water interrupted the staring contest and he put the water into one of the mugs that he’d set out, leaving the other unattended – he’d come back and add the water to that when Natasha was ready for it, because she’d never tolerate lukewarm tea. He noticed how Michael’s head was whipping around in different directions as he listened to the sounds around him; tea being stirred, cutlery clinking, the kettle hissing – sounds he’d never heard before.

“I noticed your mom talks to you in Russian,” Clint spoke aloud to the boy, since he was no longer tired. “Does she do that a lot?”

Michael gurgled a baby-response.

“Yeah, I thought so. I can’t really do that, ‘cause I don’t speak Russian. You’ll have to put with English from me, because I didn’t sleep much last night and I haven’t got the brain power for any other language right now. I’m Clint, by the way,” he introduced himself. “The most awesome person you’ll ever meet. Can you say Clint?” he asked.

Michael mumbled a combination of sounds. “Bah...bah...dah...”

“Well, your pronunciation’s a bit off, but you’ll get it eventually,” he told the boy.

At this, Michael turned his face into Clint’s shoulder, throwing his full weight against the man holding him. “Oh, so you are tired and you were just faking before?” he realised.

“Dah,” he mumbled into his shoulder.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

Clint took his tea in his free hand and wandered into the main living area, sitting down on the couch and arranging Michael more comfortably against him so that he could keep his promise to Natasha about keeping the boy in his arms. Once they were settled, he did what she told him and stroked his finger up the back of his neck. Within seconds the boy was moulded against him and he wasn’t long before he was asleep, his baby breath beating against his chest.

\--

He was glad to see that Natasha looked less jittery when she stepped into the living room twenty minutes later. She looked smaller than usual in her clothes due to the weight loss, but as soon as she spotted her son, sleeping peacefully and safely in her partners arms, she relaxed and her shoulders dropped in relief. He didn’t make a big deal about it as she had every right to be worried after her experiences, even though he’d never let any harm come to her son. He knew that these doubts weren’t going to disappear any time soon for her. He’d like to have thought that nothing had changed about her, but the way she had been leaning into his touch in the bedroom before told him otherwise.

“Hey,” he whispered as she approached him.

“Is he sleeping?” she asked quietly.

He nodded. “Since about quarter of an hour ago.”

She leaned close to him, looking down at her child. He looked comfortable with Clint, sprawled out on his chest as if he had set up his own base camp on his shirt. She ran her fingers delicately over his hair. It felt strange that she’d spent so many nights repeating this action as his hair grew thicker and thicker, whispering promises that she would get them away from that awful place. She’d done it two nights ago, letting him that this was the last time, that they were leaving now, that they would find his father and that his father would keep him safe. Now she was home with Clint, with the team, and she knew that they would be safe here.

“Natasha?”

His voice broke her thoughts, causing her to jump a little at the sudden sound even though his voice was barely more than a whisper. Immediately he reached out, placing a hand on her arm. Where her hair hadn’t been cut in so long it skimmed at the top of his palm, leaving wet trails on the top of his hand from the shower. She looked up at him with a mumbled “Sorry.”

He frowned at her, stroking his thumb over her wrist. “You okay?” he asked, but she just looked away again. “Sorry, wrong question,” he realised. “Here, sit down,” he urged, tugging on her hand slightly. She looked at him questionable for a moment. “Nat, you need to sit down before you fall down, and you want to stay close to the baby but there’s no point disturbing him now he’s asleep. Sit down, rest,” he told her, softer this time.

She hovered for a moment but then gave into his invitation. She hadn’t intended to find herself so close to him after no physical contact with anyone put her son in the last fifteen months, but there was a comfort that came from another person, the kind she’d never considered herself to need...it was nice, warm, to feel so near. They were pressed close to one another’s sides, his arm falling around her naturally. She placed her head on his shoulder once she relaxed into his embrace. In this position, Michael’s soft breaths were falling straight onto her neck and she closed her eyes when tears sprung to them. She was exhausted but couldn’t sleep, not until she knew that this was over for good. Instead, she settled for placing a hand on her son’s back and feeling his deep, even breaths. The hand that Clint slid around her shoulders settled into a gentle grip around her arm, rubbing up and down it slowly.

“I missed you, Tasha,” he mumbled into the new silence.

“Missed you too,” she whispered.

They dropped into another silence, this time not as uncomfortable. Each was considering the long nights they spent wondering whether the other was alive. For Natasha it was the plaguing thoughts that they had been looking for her and been overpowered the same way she had done, that she was waiting for a rescue that would never come. For Clint, it was the night’s he’d fallen asleep on the empty side of her bed, afraid to let go of his cell phone just in case she called the number that he knew she had memorised.

“I’m glad that you made it out of there,” he whispered. “Both of you.”

“I had to bring him home,” she told him. “I knew they’d come after us both, but I knew that if I could just get him to his father then he could protect him even if I couldn’t.”

“His father’s here in the city?” he asked.

She nodded. “They wanted to groom him to be a soldier...to do what men had done to me when I was a child...but they were going to enhance him, pump him full of drugs and chemicals and...I didn’t want that for him, Clint. Not for my son, and his father wouldn’t have ever stood for that either.”

She’d held her first weapon at a young age, too young, and the thought of her own son holding a weapon terrified her. How had her own family had the heart to train her to become an assassin? Did they not feel the love for that she felt for her son? How could they have wanted her to become a killer? She didn’t want that for her son. She wanted Michael to grow up, have innocence, find a woman to love, get married and have children, to have a family that was average and normal and blessed with simple pleasures. She didn’t want him to end up like her, wondering whether his past could ever really be overlooked enough to be loved.

“He’ll be safe with his father,” she whispered. “He’s a good man. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt him.”

“Want me to track him down?” Clint asked, before he could even think to realise what he was offering.

She was quiet for a while, paying close attention to her son’s breathing before answering in a tiny voice. “I know where to find him.”

He could tell at her tone that she didn’t want to say any more on the matter so he didn’t ask any more questions. He was desperate to ask who the father was, torn between the jealousy of there being a man in her life that he had failed to notice and the indescribable feeling that he had with Natasha tucked under one arm and her son held close with another. He settled for doing the same thing as she did, remaining still and listening to the sleeping breaths, and he waited for the silence to be broken by a cell phone, a message from anyone to tell them that things were working in their favour. The message didn’t come, however, and he heard a sharp inhale from her every few seconds. He didn’t question it, he knew that it was a sign of her falling asleep and he didn’t want to disturb her.

When she sat up and shook herself a little before settling again, he spoke up. “You should go lie down,” he suggested.

She turned her face into his shoulder. “I can’t, not until this is over.”

“Yeah, you can,” he told her. “I’m your partner, let me handle everything. You get some rest, get your strength back.”

“You’re doing enough for us already,” she told him.

At that moment, Michael stirred and turned his face into Clint’s shirt. “Muhh....” he mumbled tiredly.

“I’m here,” she whispered, leaning across to kiss her son’s head. He settled back against Clint’s chest, going back to sleep but not releasing the new secure hold he had on his human pillow.

“Sounds like he’s almost talking,” Clint observed.

She nodded gently. “He’s got a while to go yet, but he’s trying.”

He sighed, his other question falling into his mind again. “Natasha...”

“Please, Clint, don’t ask me,” she whispered, knowing that this was leading to the conversation that she didn’t want to have.

He looked up at the ceiling, glad that her head was on his shoulder. He didn’t know what he’d see when he looked into her eyes and at that moment it was probably for the best. He just took another deep breath instead, releasing it slowly and trying to ignore the fact that her hair, still damp from the shower, was leaving a wet patch on his shoulder. He was about to answer, although he wasn’t sure what with, when the sound of someone’s access code demanding entry to the residential level of Stark Tower sounded.

It bought with it the sense of urgency that had Clint reaching for the backup weapon at his ankle before Natasha had even completely taken the baby from his arms. When he stood, she followed him, standing with her arms tightly around her son, holding him close and protected in his arms. Her expression, previously peaceful, was wrought with panic as one of Clint’s arms guided her behind his back.

“Barton?”

The voice came through the hall before it’s owner entered the room, and Clint sighed with relief. Maria Hill’s tone was filled with determination and Clint placed his weapon back in his holster and went into the hall while Natasha checked on her son.

“In here,” he called.

“Good,” Maria sounded relieved, and Natasha stood motionless in the centre of the room now that both other agents were hidden from her view. “Fury told me the news.”

“Tasha’s back,” he confirmed, and she could hear the grin in his words.

“I had to come see for myself. He said she had a baby with her?”

Clint said nothing after this, so she could only assume that he’d nodded. “A lot’s happened,” he said vaguely. “Come on, she’s in the living room.”

But Maria, from the sound, was already heading down the last part of the hall. Clint followed her, just in time to see her moving swiftly over to Natasha.

“Natasha,” she said softly, uncharacteristically going to her side to hug her shoulder. Clint looked confused, as if he’d forgotten that aside from the male banter at S.H.I.E.L.D the two women had worked together for a long time and had grown close.

“Hi, Maria,” Natasha said, sounding somewhat choked.

“I believed them when they said you’d finally made it back, but I have to admit, a baby?” Maria laughed softly. “You know how to make an entrance.”

Natasha made a noise of agreement, but her usual comeback wasn’t there.

“Oh, would you look at that,” Maria whispered at the sleeping baby, taking in the fuzz of light brown hair, the parted lips and the slope of his nose. “That is the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s the only baby you’ve ever seen,” Clint mumbled, and she glared at him.

“I am appreciating the miracle of life, shush,” Maria warned him, before turning her attention back to the baby. “Whatever circumstances being what they are,” she told Natasha, “he is perfect.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. 

“He looks a lot like you.”

“I think he looks more like his father,” Natasha said thoughtfully. Maria went to ask, but out of sight to the red hair, Clint shook his head to prevent the other agent asking. 

Instead, she smiled. “Good to have you back, Romanoff.”

“Good to be back,” she replied.

“Any progress?” Clint asked, professionalism leaking from his tone.

“Stark’s doing his thing, Fury’s doing his. 90% of S.H.I.E.L.D are looking for answers,” Maria told him.

“Well, I want the other 10% looking for these assholes too!” he snapped. Both of them stared at him until he sighed, running a hand over his forehead. “Sorry.”

“You’re not one for sitting on the sidelines,” Maria smirked sadly.

Clint’s eyes flickered up to meet Natasha’s. “Not on this one,” he said. Seeing as the mood of the room had dropped, Clint shook himself. “Actually, while you’re here, we need a favour.”

Maria looked at him tiredly. “Barton, I’m here to check on Natasha, not pick up dry cleaning.”

“It’s not for me,” he backtracked. “Natasha needs things for the baby...clothes, toys, winter clothes especially.”

“Clint-“ Natasha started, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“Charge it to my account,” Clint instructed, then turned to Natasha. “Let me do this, please. We’re on lockdown, and it’s Christmas Eve. We need things for him today or the stores will be closed and he’ll have nothing.”

Maria raised an eyebrow. “I work on Christmas Eve to avoid the mall,” she deadpanned.

“Then delegate,” she shrugged. “I’m sure Darcy won’t have any trouble shopping in a baby store.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.” She turned back to Natasha, gripping her shoulder once more. “Don’t worry, nothing overboard.”


	4. Chapter Four

Maria didn't return until much later that day. In the meantime, Clint made a whole tray of sandwiches which Natasha had eaten more than eagerly, and when the doors opened again at the end of the hall it was filled with the sound of bustling shopping bags. He moved down the hall to help with what he could, taken aback by the sheer volume of shopping that the women before him held. "Keep it down," he told them. "I've just managed to convince her to get some sleep."

"Is she okay?" Pepper asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, just exhausted. I said I'd keep an eye on the baby while she slept, but he was sleeping too so he's laying on the bed with her." At this, all four of the women gave him a horrified expression, and Pepper dropped one of the heavier bags on his foot. "Don't worry," he assured their gaping jaws. "I've build him a pillow fort, he's not going to fall. What is all this stuff?" he asked, gestured to the bags.

"Everything you'll ever need for a baby," Darcy grinned.

He was about to question exactly what was in the bags when the sound of soft sniffles came from inside Natasha's bedroom along the hall. Instantly he headed towards them with the women following a little behind. Once inside, he found the source of the disturbance to be Michael, who was barely awake on one side of the bed, reaching his arms out for Natasha who was sleeping beside him. She must have been truly exhausted because for all his fussing she hadn't even stirred, but with the pillows on either side to keep him from rolling the baby wasn't impressed at not being able to reach his mother. Clint went to the far side of the bed and started to lift the boy, just as Natasha stirred and her hand shot over to discover an empty space where her son was laying.

"Michael-" she muttered, shooting up in a panic with all sorts of wild thoughts in her mind. Had someone taking him? What was happening? It couldn't be that time, already? He was too small, too tiny, too hers - where was her son?

"It's okay, I've got him," Clint assured her quickly. She looked up, seeing her son in Clint' s arms being bounced gently as he tried to calm him. Yes, that was right. She was in her bed - her own bed - and Clint was definitely the one holding her baby. That was okay. She'd let Clint. She trusted Clint. Michael trusted Clint. Clint would keep him safe.

"He's thirsty," she said instinctively. "He won't be hungry because I fed him before he slept."

"You're still exhausted," Clint answered back when he saw her trying to sit up. "Tell me what to do and I'll take care of it. You need to get some sleep."

She looked at him for a moment and then to her son. Yes, she was exhausted, she couldn't deny that, but for the last six months she, and she alone, had cared for her son. No one had ever fed him, winded him, rocked him to sleep, comforted his cries, sang to him, spoken to him, loved him, even. They hadn't been allowed, of course, but not a single person other than herself had cared about him. Clint had done most of those things already in the space of twelve hours. He'd known him less than a day and yet he'd held Michael while Bruce examined him, he had allowed him to fall asleep against him, he had happily taken care of him while she had showered, and she knew that he would have talked to him because the boy already seemed accustomed to his voice. 

She nodded at him slowly. "There's an empty bottle in the bag, near the top. If you fill it with some water, that'll be fine with him."

"Okay," he nodded. "I'll just be in the kitchen with him, okay? No further."

Natasha sighed but relented, and he looked at her, hoping to see a glimmer of her former self shine but she merely returned her head to her pillow, curling up comfortably beneath the blanket with her eyes open. Reaching down with his free hand, he stroked her hair gently, glad when she didn't flinch under his touch this time. That might have just broken his heart, to know that her instinctive reaction was to be afraid of him, of all people. The fact that anything could have happened to her out there didn't leave him with many kind thoughts, but this assured him otherwise. She wasn't afraid of him. She felt safe with him. He stroked her hair behind her ear and then ran the back of his fingers down the exposed side of her neck, as she had instructed him to do with the baby earlier.

"Try and get some more sleep, okay?" he whispered softly.

She said nothing, but when his hand stopped trailing she captured it in her own, holding onto it. From where he found his hand captured, his thumb found her jaw line. This wasn't typical Natasha behaviour, but she wasn't typical Natasha any more. Who knew how long it'd be before she went back to threatening to castrate them over the quality of her morning coffee? He didn't know how many times she'd threaten him for treating her like a fragile child when she was back normal, but he didn't care. She needed comfort and he was going to give it to her. She needed him.

"Hey," he whispered, drawing her attention back up to him. She raised her eyes. "You're safe here," he assured her quietly. "You can sleep. No one's going to let anything happen to either of you, especially not me."

She nodded and turned her head to the pillow again, sighing. He looked down on her for a moment longer, trailing his hand through her hair one last time and stepping away. He wanted to scream and shout, just to get a rise from her, but he remembered Banner's words, and that it would take time, so he just nodded as he went over to the doorway where only Jane alone hovered. 

"Darcy's setting up the baby's things and the others had to go," she explained, before turning her attention towards the baby. She hadn't seen him before and was more than happy to gush over him. Clint knew that a baby was something that both her and Thor wanted. "He's so gorgeous," she cooed with a smile.

"Yeah, he is," Clint agreed. "He'd have to be though, being Tasha's kid."

Jane smiled, but when Michael turned his attention away from Clint's shirt collar, she stopped. She froze for a moment, staring intently into the baby's blue eyes. Michael looked back at her for a second and then turned back to twisting Clint's shirt collar between his hands with a fierce concentration. Jane continued to stare at him, something that Clint didn't fail to notice.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she shook her head. "Just...a bit stunned." It wasn't entirely a lie.

He started down the hall, looking back over his shoulder as he went down the hall. "Can you just...keep an eye on her for a second?" he asked. "I'll try and settle him then I'll be straight back."

Jane waited until she heard the tap of his feet against the kitchen floor before she crossed the room and crouched close to Natasha. "Hey," she whispered.

"Hey," Natasha whispered back.

She smiled softly. "Missed you around here, keeping the guys in line," she half-shrugged.

Natasha nodded into the pillow. "It's good to be home."

"Your son's beautiful," she grinned.

At this, Natasha smiled. "Yeah, he's perfect."

Jane bit her tongue for as long as possible, but it eventually built up inside of her. She ended up physically biting her lip until the moment when the question came tumbling out her mouth, the one that no one had dared to ask.

"Clint's his father, isn't it?"

There was silence for a long time, with Jane holding her gaze on Natasha. You could see her mind working, regaining some of the thought processes she was more used to using; how had she gotten into this conversation, what could she reply to that? No words seemed right. She hadn't wanted it to be like this. She knew that unless she explained then the questions would start, especially with the people around her being so observant. If anything, she knew that she should be glad that it was Jane who came to her first, because anyone else could have caused problems. Banner may have known from the baby's age, and Fury might have suspected because let's face it, he knew everything. She had, however, planned to reveal her child's origins on her own terms, not on the grounds that other people set when they discovered for themselves. For a start, she'd liked to have told Clint first.

"How did you know?" Natasha asked softly.

"His eyes," she revealed.

To her surprise, Natasha laughed softly. "Those eyes....from the moment he first opened them, there was no doubt."

"Does Clint know?" she asked. Natasha shook her head. "You have to tell him."

"I can't," she said. "Not yet."

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because if they're going to come for him and they take him away it's better that he doesn't know," she explained.

Jane looked taken aback. "Natasha, no one's going to let him be taken away from you."

She shook her head. "You don't know what they're capable of. Please, Jane, you can't say anything."

\--

It was another hour before Fury finally called with news. Clint had been in the kitchen, clearing away the remains of the pasta dinner that he'd cooked. Jane had stayed to eat with them but had excused herself when a message from J.A.R.V.I.S confirmed that Thor was waiting for her downstairs. He hadn't minded being stuck here all day with her, because he'd missed her so much that having her near him again was like a real Christmas morning miracle, even if that wasn't until the next morning, but not knowing what was happening was dragging his mind every time that he looked at her. 

Fury calls to tell him that the Avengers are shipping out to the location they lost Natasha's signal in, thinking that's where she was being held. Clint listens down the phone about the mission and knows that 'the Avengers' doesn't include him this time. 

"I can't sit here and do nothing while they hunt her down," he growled down the phone.

"You're her best protection there."

"Bullshit!" he argued, slamming down the mug he was holding. It shattered at the handle, ceramic shards digging into his palm. The pain was agonizing but he ignored it, actually clenching his fist tighter around the broken handle. "Banner's stronger than I am, Stark knows the technology of the building better..."

"Agent Barton," the voice snapped down the phone. 

"I won't let them come here and take her away from me again."

Fury was silent for a moment, then spoke. "Agent Barton, you're remaining on the protection detail I assigned you this morning. You're too close to her to be in the field. I can't have you jeopardizing this assignment out of anger, is that understood?"

"I can't lose her again," he whispered into the phone.

"Then trust your team to do the job, and you do yours," Fury told him before hanging up.

When he put the cell phone down on the worktop, he noticed the china shards digging into his palm and swore loudly. 

"Clint?"

His head whipped around to see Natasha standing a way behind him, a sleeping child on her hip. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up," he said dumbly.

"I heard something break," she said her voice sounding distracted.

It was only then that he realized what the expression on her face was; fear. It was only naturally. He had been right beside her when she fell asleep and then she had been awoken with the sound of something breaking. "Yeah," he said nervously, glancing at the broken mug in pieces around him. "Yeah, I uh...I broke the mug."

"You're bleeding," she said, stepping closer.

"It's nothing," he insisted, even though he winced at the sight of it. "Oh, there's some bits still in there, that's...gross...but still totally fine."

With a tenderness that he barely remembered of her, she took hold of his other hand, tugging on it gently. She led him into her bedroom and indicated for him to sit down. He did, watching as she laid Michael in the travel crib that Darcy had set up a few hours previously and went into the adjoining bathroom. She came back moments later with a damp wash cloth. He expected her to place it directly on his skin but instead she observed the tiny wounds and started to remove the intruding shards and place them on her knee with a balanced ease. He'd have had no trouble removing them himself, but he didn't point this out to her. She kept her eyes down so that all he could see was the top portion of her face watching her own movements. When she had finished removing the fragments she started to clean the wounds, placing the cold cloth on top of it and pressing tightly against the bleeding area. He hissed in pain.

"Sorry," she mumbled, not loosening her hold.

"It's not that bad," he shook his head.

"Why did you smash the mug?" she asked him.

"I didn't mean to," he argued, like a three year old caught in the middle of catastrophe.

"You were talking with Fury, weren't you?" she realized.

He sighed. "Yeah, I was."

"What's happening?" she asked, almost hesitantly. He was quiet for a moment, looking down at their hands. His silence told her everything. "Oh," she whispered, looking at her son over her shoulder.

"They're not going to get to you, Tasha," he assured her.

"You don't know what they're capable of," she shook her head.

"That doesn't mean we're not going to protect you from it," he told her. She looked up at him and he wasn't sure exactly what he was seeing in her eyes but he knew it had never been there before. 

She shook her head slowly. "You don't understand, Clint..."

"Enlighten me," he suggested.

She said nothing and released the cover on his hand, taking out one stray shard which had escaped her original notice. "I heard what you said on the phone," she said, feeling his hand tense up in her grasp. "In particular, the last two things you said."

"You're the best partner I ever had," he explained, knowing how lame it sounded. "Don't want to spend any time breaking in a new partner."

As she raised her eyes to his, he couldn't help feeling like she was staring straight through him.


	5. Chapter Five

She found it easy to fall asleep again, but ended up waking in the middle of the night despite herself. She wasn't sure what had caused her to wake initially but her instincts lead her to her son, who was sleeping on the other side of the bed inside a fortress of pillows that Clint had built up. She appreciated her friends buying the temporary crib for him to sleep in, but she'd never spent a night more than a few inches away from him, if she let him out of her arms at all, and she couldn't switch so easily from that. She looked to her son but he was still sleeping peacefully beside her, unaware of the danger around them. She stroked a finger down the side of his face, remembering a few hours before when Clint had become overcome with excitement, taking the baby from her and taking her hand in his so that she could watch his reaction to the extensively over-the-top tree that Stark had insisted upon. Michael hadn't seen anything like it before and had stared at them wide-eyed at first, a look of tiny wonder on his curious face, but eventually he had reached out to touch them, observing the reflective colored lights it threw on his hand.

Convinced that it he was happy and safe in his slumber, Natasha looked at the clock, the illuminating figures confirming that it was five minutes to midnight. Five minutes away from Christmas day. She looked up to see Clint sitting in the window seat that surrounded the window in her room, looking down at the building tops below them with a gun in his hands and his bow stretched across the length of the seat. 

"What are you doing?" she asked him quietly.

"Making sure no one takes you away," he answered instantly, never taking his eyes off the window. That was how she knew Fury and the others hadn't returned yet, and he wanted to make sure that he saw prepared for the first sign of an intruder.

Natasha moved away from the bed, going over to his side. He remained sat in the same position, his legs drawn up by his chest and the gun in his hand, looking out of the window. Surprising the both of them she sat down before him, edging back until she was between his legs, lying on her side with her head on his chest. She had faced the other way so that she could see Michael sleeping on the bed, with her back to the window that he so carefully stared through, and the arm that wasn't holding the gun wound around her.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"No problem," he mumbled back.

It was silent for a moment, and she watched the clock numbers change. Four minutes to midnight.

"It's driving you crazy, isn't it?" she assumed. "Being left behind on a mission."

"No," he shook his head, feeling the brush of her hair beneath his chin. "It's driving me crazy knowing these sickos want to take you away when I've only just got you back."

Her eyes fell to the gun. "One gun won't be enough to stop them, if they try," she told him softly.

He moved a little, revealing the backup gun that was still holstered before moving back into a position they were both comfortable in. "I won't let them hurt you, Tasha."

"It's not me I'm worried about," she told him.

He followed her gaze to the baby sleeping soundly on the bed. "I won't let anyone hurt him either," he told her. "Anyone, and I mean that."

The clock changed again. Three minutes to midnight.

"He shouldn't have been born into this," she realized sadly. "He should have been born surrounded by people who would care about him, he should have had the chance to know his father..."

"At least he has a mom who's willing to risk everything for him," he pointed out to her, his fingers trailing up and down her arm. "Moms like that are a good find. He's lucky to have you."

She shook her head. "I should have gotten him out of there sooner..."

"It was out of your hands, Tasha," he justified.

"But it shouldn't have been."

"But it was," he repeated. "And you did the best he could with the situation. He's a happy kid, and now he'll grow up happy like you wanted him to."

"Maybe just without a mother..." she mused, tears filling her eyes at the mere thought of being separated from him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She sighed, one of the tears slipping onto her cheek. "They turned against him because he robbed them of their chance to kill me. They decided to use him as a way to hurt me. If I give myself up to them they have no reason to hurt him any more."

"No," he insisted. 

"You don't know these people, Clint-"

"I don't care," he sighed. "I can't go through that again, Tasha. All that time wondering if you were alive? Do you have any idea what that did to me? It was torture. I can't go through that again."

The clock changed, two minutes until midnight. 

"Why are you doing this, Clint?" she asked him softly.

"Doing what?" he asked.

"You're sitting up in the middle of the night with a loaded weapon, watching us sleep," she stated. "Why?"

He was quiet for a moment, brushing his face across her hair. "You know why," he mumbled against her.

"Say it," she whispered.

Again he was quiet, only long enough to manoeuvre her body further up his so that her head was rested on his shoulder. When he turned his head, they were now locking eyes directly. "Remember the night before you left?" he mumbled, so close that she felt his words on her skin.

"Yes," she breathed.

"We sat here, like this, looking outside and watching that thunderstorm Thor caused because Stark pissed him off. We sat here all night, talking about the most random of things...then we started taking about your mission and you promised you'd be back soon. I believed you. You believed you, too. So we made a deal, to make it easier; one more mission apart and then you'd come back and it was our turn. Our turn to be us, together. We made a deal," he repeated, kissing her forehead with his hand on her cheek. "I care about you, okay? A lot. I meant what I said that night."

"So did I," she assured him, nodding in a way which only succeeded in making him continue the gentle touch across her cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the clock change; one minute until midnight.

"I know that you've been through a lot, but I waited for you," he acknowledged. "I never gave up on you, and I want you to know that I'm going to carry on waiting, and whenever you're ready for there to be an 'us', I'm still all for that."

This time, she said nothing, just closing her eyes at his touch. His embrace was so tight and yet so gentle, and she hadn't felt so safe for a long time. She had waited so long to be back here that she couldn't bear to say anything to compromise that, but her conversation with Jane kept flooding her mind. She kept her eyes closed as she lay there, the feel of his lips grazing her forehead whenever she moved, but eventually she opened her eyes.

She was about to speak when a murmur from across the room distracted both of them. Their heads whipped around to the baby on the bed, but they saw the little boy shuffle around before settling back, one arm thrown above his head and the other at his side. Clint slept like that sometimes, she noticed. As this happened, the clock beyond him changed. 00:00.

"Midnight," he mused quietly. "Merry Christmas, I guess."

"Clint, the night before I left..." she began, breaking off when she struggled with the words. She felt Clint's lips brush her skin again.

"What about it?" he asked.

"That was the night Michael was conceived."


	6. Chapter Six

A rush of emotions ran through Clint at her words, all of which rendered him silent for the longest of moments. Any chance of words choked up and tied on his tongue, simple because he had no idea of what to say. If he'd suspected this, he could have planned what he would say, but he could honestly say that he hadn't. The hand that had been stroking up and down her arm stopped, falling motionless to his side. The gun in his hands, which thankfully wasn't ready to fire, fell to the carpet with small thud. At his limp reaction, Natasha tensed in his arms, preparing herself for a negative reaction. 

Clint turned his head slowly, looking at the tiny child on the bed. Before, it had simply been a baby on the bed, Natasha's baby, but now the little boy that they watched was his son, too. Their son. He had a son. He had a child with Natasha, because of the night before she left. Michael was his son.

The first comprehensive thought he was able to recognize was shock, obviously, but it was more then shock that he hadn't been able to see it for himself. The eyes he'd thought were familiar, now closed in sleep, were naturally inherited from him - of course they'd be familiar, he'd spent thirty-two years staring back at them in the mirror. The baby's hair was more brown than his mother's red, more or less identical to his own shade, it even was wispy and somewhat spiked like his. How had he not seen it?

Then he felt guilty. This boy was six months old and he'd not been there for more than a day of it. And if it weren't for this child, she wouldn't even be alive. Their child. His son, whose mere existence had bought Natasha back to him. If it weren't for the baby, they'd have slaughtered her as a demonstration to the Avengers, but instead, the night they had spent together before they were separated had saved her life.

The thought of her being anywhere other than his arms ignited a reaction from him, and he tightened his arms around her.

"Clint," she whispered at his action. "Please, say something."

"My son," he whispered, barely hearing her. "That's my son."

"Yes," she confirmed.

"I have a son," he murmured, unaware of the tiny smile growing on his lips. "With you."

"Yes," she repeated. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you right away. I wanted to wait until I knew he was safe, but I just couldn't..." she trailed off.

He nodded numbly, unsure of what else he could do. He'd never have imagined that all through the time she was missing, that she was carrying his child. He'd thought of many terrifying thoughts - dead, tortured, morbidly injured, brainwashed - but never this. He hadn't even considered it as a consequence of their experience before she left. Sure, it had been a spur of the moment decision and neither of them had been thinking about protection, but it had never dawned on them that she might actually have fallen pregnant. That was something that happened to normal people, not to them. Had he known that she was going on that mission with his son, he'd have never let her plane leave the tarmac. He closed his eyes to rid himself of any bad thoughts. She was back now, and so was his son.

At that moment, the boy in question stirred from his sleep. He grumbled a little, then became more agitated when he couldn't sense his mother nearby. Instinctively, Natasha pushed herself from Clint's shoulder but when she went to stand her stopped her. Words died on his tongue again as she looked at him curiously, wondering why he was preventing her from going to her distressed child, but he sighed and then looked between them. "Do you mind if I...?" he asked awkwardly.

She nodded, remaining seated as Clint went over to the side of the bed where Michael lay, looking down at him for a moment before he left the boy into his arms. He bounced him a little as he moved him onto his shoulder, cradling his head carefully in one hand and holding him under his diaper with another. He stayed there for a moment, holding him and feeling for the first time that this was his son. Before, he'd simply been holding Natasha's child, but now he knew that this boy was his as well the rush of protection that he had doubled. It was his son that he held against him his son's hand that reached for a fist full of his shirt; his son's soft hair that he felt in the palm of his hand; his son's soft cries that filled his ear until they calmed; his son's soft breathing bleating against his neck.

He suddenly felt so far beyond angry that he didn't know what else to call it. Someone had separated him from his son, his family. He didn't know how he would have reacted if Natasha had learned of her own accord that she was pregnant. He'd have been shocked of course, but he knew that they would have done the right thing by the baby. He'd have been there through the pregnancy, and to see his child growing within her. He'd have been there at the birth, letting her damage his bone structure as they bought him into the world together. He'd have been there on the nights he was crying endlessly and she needed to sleep. He'd have been there when she needed someone, when she needed him to help her raise their son. But he didn't get to see the little boy on the first day of his life, or the first time he smiled, or hear his first cry, his first laugh. He didn't get to see his son for the first six months of his life.

Fury had been right, he was too emotional to go into the field on this one.

He raised the boy's form up to his face, kissing his head softly. "Oh my god," he mumbled against the soft skin. "This is my son..."

He returned to the window seat, carefully holding the child. He used one arm to cradle him against his chest while Natasha tucked herself under his other arm, taking up her position from a few moments ago, safe under his arm as well as their son now was. She traced a finger down the side of Michael's cheek, watching with a soft smile as he squirmed at the tickling sensation and burrowed himself closer to Clint. He wasn't hungry, he didn't need a change, he just wanted a cuddle.

"Thank you," Clint whispered to her as the baby settled asleep against him, his tiny hand gripping the front of his shirt again. "For coming home, for bringing him home."

"I had to bring him home to you," she mumbled softly.

"And he's safe now, you both are," he assured her. "What I said before still stands. Plus, I have a family now...I have to protect it."

Relief flooded through her as she sighed. Family. They were his family, and he wanted to protect them. He wanted to protect his son, as she had hoped. 

\--

"What's going on inside your head, Clint?"

The question stunned him for a moment, shaking him out of a trance that he hadn't been aware he was in. The three of them had moved away from the cramped window ledge and were now lying on the bed with Michael in the centre of the mattress. His two parents (together for the first night since his conception) were lying on either side, watching him. Clint hadn't been able to take his eyes off him since learning that this was his son.

"What?" he mumbled as he shook himself. 

"I remember you talking more," she said softly. "To me, anyway."

He shrugged. "I feel like I should be doing something."

"You are doing something," she told him. "You're here with us. If we were alone right now, we'd be defenceless. I'm not...I'm not the same person I was before," she admitted softly. "I'm not that strong now."

Looking at each other over the top of their sleeping child, Clint felt his heart pounding at her admission. A day ago he'd been wondering whether or not she was even alive, and now, she was alive, in her bed, with their son. He still couldn't believe that he had a son. If it weren't for the fact that he was sleeping only inches away from him, he still wouldn't have believed it. The hand of hers that he was holding moved in his grasp, not to pull away but to get more comfortable. He raised it to his lips, kissing the fingers that he hadn't felt in so long. In fact, the last time he felt them it had resulted in a baby. God, he'd missed her touch...

"I'm not letting you go," he assured her quietly.

She simply nodded. She could tell from the look in his eyes as he gazed at their son that he wasn't messing around. He meant what he said - that he would do anything to protect them. She was glad for it, though worried that could result in her losing him. Michael sighed in his sleep and she kissed the top of his head, when she raised her eyes again Clint was grinning softly. "What?" she asked.

"You're home..." he smiled. "And you're alive...and I've got a son...and it's Christmas day...kinda cliché," he realized with an amused expression.

"It's good though, right?" she checked.

"Oh yeah," he said, touching the soft downy skin on his son's scalp. "A real good thing. Although, I'm not all that experienced with diapers and pretty much anything other than holding kids," he explained.

"I wasn't either," she reminded him. "You'll learn like I had to."

He nodded, knowing that her words weren't meant to remind him of her situation but it did anyway. He watched his son wriggle restlessly in his sleep before settling again. He certainly moved like a Barton, constantly with no real purpose unless he had a goal to focus on. "Tell me about it," he asked her softly.

"What do you want to know?" she asked him.

"The day he was born," he said, keeping his eyes on the baby. "Tell me what happened."

She was quiet for a moment, before starting in a soft voice. "It was early in the morning and I'd been having these weird pains through the night. I'd never felt anything like it before. I tried to ignore it, to believe that it wasn't happening, because even though I know I'd never be able to escape in my position I never thought that my baby would be born in that place. I didn't realize how scared I was until one of their guards bought me my food and water for the morning and did nothing to even recognize the fact that I was giving birth. He just left the room, and no one came in to help me. I was alone the entire time."

"How long?" Clint asked, his throat drying up knowing that she had been alone when he should have been there beside her.

"I don't remember exactly," she shook her head, "but it was night by the time he was here. I had to make do with what I had to deliver him myself, and it was so hard to concentrate with the pain and I didn't know what the Hell I was doing...they had at least ten medics I'd seen before then who could have given me pain relief, but nothing was offered. He..." she looked down at her baby. "He was worth every moment of the pain, but to be alone while I felt it was terrifying."

"I'm sorry," he gasped out. "I should have been there."

"You couldn't help it," she reminded him.

"I should have found you," he insisted. She just remained silent. "I'd have done the right thing, you know?" he told her. "If you'd been here when we found out about the baby, I'd have stayed. I'd have been there for everything. We'd have done it together. You know that, right?"

She nodded, moving closer. "I know. I..." he looked at her curiously. "I...imagined that you were there, when he was being born," she admitted. "In my head, you were complaining that I was crushing your hand, and you were telling me that I could do it, that I'd survived worse, and that I didn't have to be scared to be a mother..." she wiped away a stray tear, not realizing it had fallen until it hit her cheek. "And then he was born...and he was in my arms...and it was like staring into your eyes the first time he opened them."

"Natasha, I..."

And the sound of a repulsor ray in the hall outside interrupted them.


	7. Chapter Seven

In less than ten minutes, Clint was throwing things into two hold-all bags he'd pulled from the closet. Natasha was still the entire time, watching him load a variety of clothing and then move into the bathroom, taking deodorant, toothbrush and toiletries. Essentials, she noticed. When he was finished, he looked at her, noticing how still she was.

"Natasha," he said, zipping up one bag and carrying it through to her room. She followed him numbly. "Come on, it's not safe here, we have to leave."

He started to take clothes straight from the bags that the women had bought her the previous afternoon. It was a lot of them she hadn't even seen before, but she was pleased that they'd stuck her old tastes, jeans and combat pants with plain t-shirts. Several sweaters accompanied them, as well as all the clothing and essentials for Michael. He left out a single outfit for her, handing them to her along with a bag of underwear that he'd found. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "You can shower when we get to Coulson's, but for now just put some clothes on." 

She took the clothes from him silently. Clint left the bedroom and went into her bathroom to allow her the privacy of the bedroom to change. She waited for a moment until she heard him shuffling around behind the closed door and then placed her sleeping son on the bed, changing into the new t-shirt and pants. They were a little loose, considering her dramatic weight loss, but they fit well enough. 

She was pleased that everyone seemed to be alert enough to handle the situation with their usual proficiency, because she certainly wasn't. If Clint hadn't been taking charge, she'd still have been standing in the doorway, watching with ragged breaths as Tony, fully suited up, disposed of the two enemy agents who had broken in to get Michael back for their Super Soldier program. Yet everyone was working, even though it was the early hours of Christmas morning. Tony was still suited up, securing the place with Steve. Banner was following a trail they'd left along with Thor. Pepper was on the phone to Fury, who was arranging a safe house in the form of Coulson's house, Jane and Darcy were packing up the baby things ready to drive them over to Coulson's and Clint was making sure they had everything they needed.

When Clint came back into the bedroom he bought with him the last of the supplies they'd need and threw them into the top of the bag. He'd also changed into a pair of jeans and a clean sweater; the one he'd been wearing before now slung over his arm. He was still moving quickly with a purpose when he saw Natasha standing beside the bed, lost. "Tasha, you need to put that sweater on, it's freezing out there."

She shrugged silently. She knew that it was cold outside and that her compromised immune system would easily fall apart in a New York winter, even just through the quick trip to the car and the hour drive to Coulson's house. However, standing in the new clothes felt odd compared to the ones she'd been comfortable in an hour ago. The new clothes didn't have the familiarity of the sweater of Clint's she'd been wearing all day. Ignoring the new one he'd left out for her she reached for the old one and went to tug it over her head. "Natasha, put the clean one on..."

"This one's warmer," she justified, looking between the old sweater of Clint's and the new one of her own. There was nothing wrong with it; the stitching was perfect, the fabric was soft and most importantly, warm. The only fault it had was that it was brand new. It didn't feel lived in. It didn't give her the feel of protection and home that she got from Clint's.

He seemed to realize this, and even though he had taken the sweater from her she still had her fingers clasped around the hem, almost begging him not to take it from her with all the innocence of a child with a safety blanket. He let go of it, letting it surrender in her delicate grasp. She just looked at it, wondering whether he was actually going to give up on this, but he wasn't. He handed her the sweater that he had taken off himself only moments ago and handed it to her. "Here..."

She looked at this sweater with a new strange expression in her eyes. In an argument to get her to wear her own clothes, he had ended up giving her more of his own? It was confusing but she wasn't going to fight it. She took the navy sweater, slipping it over her head and adjusted it around her. It swamped her just like the previous one had, but it had his warmth and that’s what she was searching for. "Thank you," she whispered, with a tiny amount of shame in her voice.

"No problem," he told her in a whisper, rubbing her arms slightly before jumping back into action. He looked down at the baby. "If you go through the rest of the bags, take out anything that you might need for Michael. I'll get the things from the kitchen."

She nodded and went over to the rest of the bags. Clint had left the room, something that made her nervous, but she forced herself to believe that Tony was still right outside the door and wouldn't let anyone through. She still had a nagging feeling that something was going to happen, and the feeling that Clint would leave the room, promise to be back and never be seen again was something that terrified her, even more so now that she had landed the responsibility of being Michael's father on his shoulders as well. But she shook this off, trying to regain some of the confidence that she used to find so easily. She thought of her son, her sleeping child on the bed, defenceless at six months old. Everything she had done to get back here had been for him, so that they could be free, that he could be safe, and so that he could know his father. That couldn't end yet. 

She took the blankets from the bag, placing them into the hold-all on the bed and placing another beside Michael. She took out a few toys, not many because of the space. When she was done, Clint came back in. "Everything ready?" he asked her.

"I think so," she nodded. She wrapped Michael inside the blanket she had left out so that he would be shielded from the winter temperatures before lifting him into her arms. She went to get the other bag but Clint got to it before her.

"Come on," he said, holding out his hand for her to take. "Coulson just got home, he's setting up a room for us to stay in for a while. We have a cover. Our best hope is that they won't attack a residential suburban area."

But despite the situation, Natasha felt odd about imposing on Agent Coulson's private home when the sun had barely risen on Christmas Day. They sat in the back of the car while Fury himself drove them out to the area, reminding them that they did have a cover to uphold, and that they were a recently married couple arriving at the husband's fathers house for Christmas lunch. They were dropped off outside, assured that the others would 'handle' the situation and that someone would be by later that day to update them. Until then, they were to stay put.

Michael slept for the entire journey until they arrived on the doorstep when he awoke loudly. Natasha knew that he was hungry and he had already slept more than he usually did, but she could hardly feed him outside in the cold or in the back of the car, so she simply rocked him against her, reducing his cries until they were simply whimpers.

Clint frowned, looking at the angry red face of his son. His son. That still felt strange. "He okay?" he asked.

She nodded. "He's hungry."

At that moment, Coulson opened the door and Clint was ushering them into the warmth. Once the door was closed behind them the baby started crying louder. 

"Sorry," Natasha spoke over the noise. "He's just woken up and he's hungry..."

"Spare rooms upstairs, third door on the left," Coulson told her. "It'll have more privacy than the living room."

"Thank you," she smiled weakly, following just behind Clint as he took their few bags upstairs. Neither of them commented on the fact that only one spare room had been set up, and they found it set up ready for them when they entered. Natasha sat down on the side of the bed with Michael, beginning to feed him the second they had closed the door behind them. "You uh...you want me to step out for a second?" he asked, his voice distracted as he found himself both confused and amazed by what he was watching.

"No, it's fine," she said simply, not raising her eyes from her son. "He's your son, I don't mind you being here."

Every confirmation that Michael was his son bought a little smile to his lips, but this time it wasn’t as broad. He went over and sat beside Natasha on the bed, keeping a little space between them. He'd have thought watching something like this might just ruin every mental image he'd ever had of that particular part of her anatomy, but instead he found it completely natural. A woman feeding her son. There was nothing creepy or weird about that. After all, the boy had Barton blood and was bound to be interest in a woman's breasts, especially when he was so young that they held a connection to food as well. But Clint was particularly drawn to the eye contact held between mother and son. Their eyes were locked, both of them watching each other and not looking away. Clint had noticed Michael's eyes darting around with every little movement and new source of temporary entertainment yesterday, but right now his eyes were completely focused on his mother, still blinking slowly because he'd barely been awake for five minutes.

When she was done, she readjusted her shirt and reached inside the bag beside her for a small cloth. She looked at him for a moment before turning to Clint. "He needs winding, do you...?" she asked him cautiously.

"Uh...yeah, sure," he said, taking the child that was offered to him. Natasha placed the cloth over his shoulder before gesturing him to hold Michael so that his head was on his shoulder. She showed him how to gently rub and pat his back until he was done and after a moment the movement seemed natural to him and Natasha was content to sit and watch them both. Once again, Michael's hand sought for a hold on him, this time taking hold of the fabric on his sleeve. She smiled a little, not much but more than she had in the past day. When Michael turned his head on Clint's shoulder, looking at his mother for a moment, it seemed like his eyes were saying 'we're staying here, right? we're staying here with daddy?'. In response to his eyes, she stroked his hair softly.

After a few short rumbles from Michael, Clint looked down at him. "Is he uh...done?" he asked, unsure of what to do now the boy was just laying against him.

"Yeah," she whispered softly. "He just looks so comfortable..."

"It'd be a shame to move him then," he hinted, feeling so comfortable himself that it was a little frightening. Two days ago he wouldn't have ever imagined being a father. Of course, the first few days that Natasha was gone, back when he thought he'd be back, he knew that they were going to give things a shot, and he knew that he cared about her, loved her, in ways that he never had with another woman. He knew that it meant things could progress, and far be it from him to suggest kids and marriage, but things happened in life...things like this...things he found himself enjoying, despite the circumstances.

"He'll get restless soon now he's fed," she told him. "But he'll stay really cuddly for a while first if you want to keep him there."

"Sure," he smiled. "I've got six months of this to make up for."

She was about to feel guilty again until she saw the smile on his lips when he spoke. There was something overly reassuring in the way that Clint held her son and smiled at him. The bond between the father and son was one she'd imagined and had been hoping for since she first had the pleasure of holding their child in her arms, but now that she was finally getting to see it, it seemed overwhelmingly good to her. But still, it was nice, it felt like home. Clint stood up, keeping Michael against his shoulder for a moment before moving him to his hip so that little boy could look around him with his usual curiosity. 

He looked at Natasha, who still sat on the mattress. "You okay?"

She stood at this, standing closer to him than she realized but mainly to stroke the soft hair on her son's head, her hand settling on the top of Clint's arm afterwards. "Yes, I'm fine," she assured him.

"Really?" he asked, his free arm encircling her waist boldly. "If you don't want to go down, we can stay up here..."

"No," she said firmly, nodding her head with a deep breath. "I have enough to hide from already."


End file.
